Angie Smith asserts her rightsunder the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the authorof this work.

All rights reserved. No part ofthis publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, ortransmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author.

This novel is a work of fiction;names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either theproduct of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblanceto actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

As the boat’s engine finallyspluttered into life Bulmer grinned. He lifted up his head and quickly scannedthe horizon for signs of imminent weather change. Today, as most days in LosCristianos, was beautiful, clear and sunny. He stepped off the boat, untied themooring and immediately jumped back on board.

“Adios,” he raised his hand and waved to the waiterswiping down the outside tables at one of the nearby restaurants.

“Adios, Señor,” one replied, as the small fishingboat bobbed slowly back away from the quayside and was skilfully manoeuvred inand around the various expensive motor yachts. As soon as he reached open waterhe pushed the throttle hard and headed out to sea, unaware he would neverreturn to port again.

His favoured fishing location was approximately fivemiles offshore; he made good time arriving earlier than normal due to the seabeing calm and the tide in his favour. He quickly dropped anchor, set up thefishing lines and took an ice cold beer from the fridge, finally settling inthe wooden sun-bleached fishing chair. His preference, rather than trollingwith artificial lures and going after big game fish, was to bottom fish withtwo lines using either dead or live baits. He was after sea bream, skate andmonkfish which he could sell to the restaurant owners back in port. This typeof fishing suited his sedate lifestyle; it was less exciting and less stressful,and he could enjoy a few cold beers and relax.

By ten o’clock he already had a sizeable catch andwas on his fourth beer of the day. Although far from being drunk, he wasperhaps not as alert as he could have been; nevertheless something in thedistance attracted his attention. He squinted into the sun trying to identifyit. Then, as it came into focus, he realised it was a motor yacht approachingfrom the south-east and, as it neared, he recognised it as an extremely elegantlooking, fairly new and very expensive Princess 42.

He relaxed back in the chair and took another swigfrom the bottle.I wonder where they’re heading today,he mused, smilingto himself. He’d seen the yacht a few days earlier, when fishing at the samelocation, and as it sailed by he’d waved across and exchanged pleasantries withthe man and woman crewing it; he intended doing the same today. However, this timeas it approached the engine slowed and the motor yacht stopped just off hisport-side.

“How’s the fishing today, Skipper?” the man calledover.

Bulmer smiled, and with both hands cupped around hismouth shouted, “Good, I’ve got a few sizeable keepers.”

“Any mackerel?”

Bulmer nodded.

“Would you be kind enough to sell me a couple?”

“Sure.”

“Excellent, I’ll drop anchor and come over in thedinghy.”

“Where’s the lady today?”

“She’s down below sleeping off the booze; had a fewtoo many last night.”

When the man appeared satisfied that the anchor washeld, Bulmer watched him untie the dinghy from the diving platform on the backof the yacht and push it into the water. Then came the awkward business ofgetting on board, which was not helped by him holding a carrier bag, thoughsomehow he managed to undertake the task without any mishaps, and once in theinflatable he swiftly sat down on the bench seat and placed the bag at hisfeet.

Bulmer heard the sound of chinking bottles.Ah...What might that be?he thought, as he chewed his bottom lip.A bottle ortwo of expensive Scotch would do nicely.

The man pulled the starting cord on the inflatable’soutboard motor and it immediately fired into life; he then made the shortjourney in the fairly calm blue water across to the fishing boat. “Bill Jones,”he said, standing up and precariously balancing in the dinghy. He held out hisright hand and offered the carrier bag to Bulmer with his other, “Something foryou to enjoy later…”

Bulmer shook his hand. “Thank you…” he said, hisleathery tanned hand taking hold of the gift, “Christian Bulmer; nice to meetyou,” he added, busy looking in the bag. “Thank you,” he repeated. “We can’tget this over here; I used to love this when I was in the UK.”

“Did you really? It was a good choice then,” Jonessaid beaming. “I’ve got half a crate left on the yacht; I’ll get you some morebefore I go.” He grabbed the side of the fishing boat to steady himself.

“What must you think of me?” Bulmer saidapologetically. “Come aboard, let me get a bottle opener and we can sharethese.” He carefully placed the bag down and held out his right hand to help. “Welcomeaboard,” he said as Jones clambered over the rail and tied the dinghy cord toit.

“Nice to meet you, Christian.”

“And you,” Bulmer replied, picking up the bag anddisappearing off into the cabin for a few seconds. When he emerged he washolding two open bottles of strong real ale and was smiling broadly, his whiteteeth shining in the bright sunlight. He handed one to Jones. “We’ll enjoythese and then you can choose what you want from the catch. It’s on the house.”

“Sure,” Bulmer replied, placing his bottle down onthe staging and heading back into the cabin. “Too posh to drink out of a bottleare we?” he shouted through the window, before retuning with a grubby lookingglass.

Jones headed down the boat towards the rods andBulmer followed. They drank the ale as they discussed the merits of the varioustypes of fishing gear, then at Bulmer’s behest Jones was allowed to reel in oneof the lines, re-bait it and cast out, but the fish were no longer biting.While Bulmer was chatting he noticed Jones taking an avid interest in him, thenmid-sentence Bulmer stopped speaking.I think I’m gunna throw up, heturned seawards, steadying himself against the rail.Jesus my head’sspinning… What the hell’s wrong with me?He shook his head and caught sightof Jones staring at him.Who is he..? Oh my God… Where am I..? What the f..?He retched over the side, but produced nothing.For Christ’s sake,hestooped and clutched his abdomen; then his legs started to give way and hetried in vain to grab onto the side-rail. He just managed to stay upright,although he was staggering around.

“Are you alright Christian?” Jones’ voice echoed inhis head.

Bulmer tried to speak, but could form no words, hewas losing control of his abilities;I can’t breathe… I can’t breathe… I’m…

Jones quickly grabbed him from behind, and thenslowly moved him towards the side-rail.

BANG!!!

Bulmer’s head slammed down hard on the warm woodenrail; he felt the impact as the pain shot through him and immediately lostconsciousness. He was unaware of being lifted over the side-rail and droppedinto the clear blue water…

Jones stood motionless, waiting afew minutes, watching as Bulmer’s lifeless body remained submerged and slowlydrifted away from the boat. He looked around, scanned the horizon, paused andthen took a cloth. He wiped his fingerprints off the fishing gear, cleaned the glassthat he’d handled and gathered up the two bottles he’d brought, placing themback in the carrier bag. He wiped the side-rail where he’d clambered over and usingthe cloth he carefully collected an array of empty beer bottles from the cabin,where Bulmer had left them, along with four full bottles which he emptiedoverboard, and arranged them all around the fishing gear.

Before disembarking with the bag, Jones took a blackmarker pen out of his pocket and very neatly wrote MDXVI on the glass in the cabindoor. Then, being careful not to leave any fingerprints on the side-rail, heclimbed back into the dinghy and returned to his own craft. He started theengine, drew up the anchor and sailed slowly away towards the south-east.

Dr Smith had spent the past twoand a half hours seeing patients at the surgery, which he held at Orchard CroftMedical Centre. There had been the usual array of health related matters todeal with, none of which were too taxing for a senior GP of twenty-five years’experience. He had worked at the centre for the past decade and taken the timeto really get to know his patients.

While sitting at his desk, busy tidying up his notesand checking through e-mails, there was a quiet knock at his door. “Come in,”he said.

“Sorry for troubling you Dr Smith.”

“What can I do for you, Gillian?” he enquired,smiling. “I was expecting coffee.”

“Sorry. I’ve just received a call from the dutymanager, Mrs Hoffman, at Cliff Crest. She said to let you know Jim Broadbentdied this morning, and asked if you would go and certify the death.”

Smith glanced out of the window momentarily, andthen looked back at his secretary, who was waiting patiently. “Let Mrs Hoffmanknow I’ll be there within the hour,” he said, rubbing his chin. “I’d hoped hemight pull through; I was due to see him tomorrow. What a shame, he was such anice old gentleman.”

“Yes he was, Dr Smith,” his secretary replied halfsmiling. “I’ll get you that coffee,” she added, closing the door behind her.

At 12.30 p.m. Smith parked hiscar outside Cliff Crest Residential Home; he walked up to the glass-frontedentrance and Mrs Hoffman, who had seen him pull up, was waiting to greet him. Afterexchanging pleasantries she escorted the doctor upstairs to the EMI Unit, whereshe walked with him down the corridor to Room 21.

“Do you need me to stay with you?” Mrs Hoffman asked,her keys jangling as she unlocked and opened the solid cream door.

Smith shook his head and they both entered, “I justneed to ask you a couple of quick questions and then have a few minutes tocomplete the examination. I’ll lock the door when I’ve finished.” Then, placinghis case onto the bed, rolling up his sleeves and reaching for his notepad, he asked,“What time did he die?”

“Sometime between 10.00 a.m. and 10.48. It was JackieCapestone, one of the care workers, who discovered he’d passed away; she’d cometo check on him at 10.48 and collect his mid-morning teacup.”

“So he was alive when tea was served, at 10.00?”

“Yes.”

“How did he seem?”

“Jackie said he was very quiet and sleepy, butresponsive. Much the same as usual.”

“Did he drink any of the tea?”

“Yes, but only a small amount.”

Smith nodded as he scribbled down notes.

“We’ve been expecting the worst, as you know he’sbeen so ill, but it was still a shock.”

Smith nodded again, “Have the family been informed?”

“Yes, they’re on their way, they said they’d be herelater this afternoon.”

“Do you know if they will be requiring an intermentor cremation?”

“I’ve checked the records and it’s a cremation.”

The doctor made a note. “Right, thank you,” he said.“When I’ve finished I’ll pop down and see you in the main office.”

Mrs Hoffman left the room and Smith spent a fewminutes formally examining Broadbent’s decrepit body; he found no signs of lifeand after another ten minutes the examination was complete. Death was to be attributedto myocardial infarction due to ischaemic heart disease. However, beforecompleting the Medical Certificate, he picked up the telephone in Broadbent’sroom and called Reception. Two minutes later there was a knock on the door andMrs Hoffman appeared.

“You wanted a word Dr Smith. Is there somethingwrong?”

“I don’t think so. As far as I’m concerned this is anexpected death; in other words where the cause is quite clear and I’ve attendedthe deceased during his last illness. But I just wanted to ask if you’d seenthis?” he held out the palm of Broadbent’s left hand.

Mrs Hoffman came closer to get a better look andthen shook her head, “I didn’t spot that. What does it mean?”

Smith glanced at the tray, “I wonder whatsignificance one thousand, three hundred and sixteen has to him.”

“Perhaps it’s a pin number or a security code, or anamount of money. Maybe, realising he was nearing the end, he scribbled it onhis hand so his family would know.”

“It’s an unconventional way to write it though.”

“Yes it is. Perhaps it’s in code. I’ll mention it tothe family and ask if it means anything to them.”

Smith scratched the side of his nose and regardedher for a moment, “Right, I’ll make a note of it and I’ll complete the MedicalCertificate and the Formal Notice.”

It took him another couple of minutes to deal withthe paperwork. He handed the relevant copies to Mrs Hoffman and they both leftthe room, returning to the main entrance foyer.

“Let me know what the family have to say,” Smithsaid, preparing to leave.

“I will. And thank you for coming so promptly.”

Dr Smith went out to his car and drove the shortdistance back to Orchard Croft Medical Centre. It was 1.27 p.m.

Pauline Crean stared at thewindscreen of her Range Rover, which was parked in a secluded, wet,litter-strewn lay-by just off the A65 in North Yorkshire. She was watching therain droplets slowly descending the screen, and, whilst aware of her newacquaintance speaking, she wasn’t listening. She was thinking about Gerrard,what they’d done together, where they’d been, how she missed him, and whatthey’d be doing now if he were alive.

“Pauline. Pauline, are you alright?”

She snapped into focus and looked across to thepassenger seat. “No, I’m sorry, I’m anything but. It’s me, I don’t want anymore pain, and this isn’t going to work. You deserve better.”

“Shouldn’t I be the judge of that?”

She glanced in the mirror as a large HGV pulled intothe lay-by and parked up behind her. The rear wheel on the trailer unit wassteaming and the driver jumped out of the cab, pulled up the collar on hishigh-vis jacket to protect him from the rain, and went to investigate. Shelooked back to the passenger seat, “I’m so screwed up… I don’t know what I’mdoing half the time.”

“You’re still grieving.”

“It’s been two years.”

“It takes a long time to get over someone you’veloved; someone who’s been such a major part of your life. Listen, we don’t needto rush things, if you prefer we can be friends; I’ll be there if you needsomeone to talk to, a shoulder to cry on.”

She blinked away a tear and smiled softly. “You’re asweet young man and you have such a wise head on those broad shoulders, but Ineed to have some space; some time to sort myself out. I don’t want to stringyou along, particularly when you could be enjoying life; I’ll run you back intotown.” She leant towards him, kissed him on the cheek and, sensing he was aboutto speak, put her index finger across his lips and slowly shook her head.

He indulged her wishes, and during the journey backto town neither spoke; again she was thinking about Gerrard as she pulled up inthe square. She looked over, intending to apologise and say goodbye, but thepassenger door was open and he was jumping out. The door closed with force andhe walked away without looking back.

She felt tears welling up and pangs of guilt burninginside; she hit the accelerator pedal and drove towards home.Things need tochange, and fast,she thought, pulling up at the farmhouse entrance gates.

Thursday 22ndMarch.

Hussain glanced at his watch,Blast;I’m going to be late. He quickly threw the paperwork in the bureau drawer.“I’ll have to sort this out later, I need to hurry darling.” He picked up thecar keys and grabbed his bomber jacket from the back of the chair. “Can youtext James, let him know I’m running late?”

“Yes dear, drive carefully,” his wife answered.

“I will.” He exited through the back door, sprintedacross to his car, jumped in, started the engine and drove off towardsSlaithwaite.

Abdul Hussain was a forty-eight-year-old financemanager who lived at Scapegoat Hill in Huddersfield, not far from Junction 23on the M62 motorway. He worked for the local NHS Foundation Trust, and wasmarried with a teenage son, James, who was a member of the Slaithwaite ScoutGroup, which met every Thursday in the local Community Centre. It was there thatHussain was now heading.

He looked down at his watch; it was 9.10 p.m., itwould take him another ten minutes to reach his destination, meaning he’d betwenty minutes late. However, knowing that his son would have received thetext, he relaxed, there was no need to rush. This suited him as the route tookhim on some tricky, dark, isolated lanes where the car’s full-beam headlightswere essential.

As he drove down a steep right-hand bend, unexpectedlyhe was forced to brake hard. In his headlights he’d spotted a man in cyclinggear lying in the middle of the road, then, noticing a bicycle strewn up thebanking, realised there had been an accident.He’s come down the hill toofast and crashed into the wall!Hussain jumped out of the car and ran overto the cyclist, who was face down and not moving. “Are you alright, Mate?”Hussain bent down and touched the man lightly on the shoulder. The man groanedand started to turn.

It happened so fast that Hussain didn’t know whathit him; instantly he felt completely rigid as a terrific shock of 75,000 voltsfired through his whole body. The shock ceased, but intense pain followed withmental confusion and disorientation. He went limp.

The cyclist sprang to his feet,hurriedly dragging Hussain’s limp, gangly body back to the car, and bungling itinto the passenger seat. He held Hussain’s arms behind his back and placed anelectric cable tie around the sleeve-covered wrists, pulling it tight. Hesecured the trouser-covered ankles with an identical tie and placed gaffer tapeover Hussain’s mouth, before securing the seat belt across the lifeless body,and closing the passenger door. Finally, he threw the bicycle out of sight overthe wall, gathered up a rucksack, which he had stashed there, raced back to thecar and jumped in the driving seat. After starting the engine and quickly turningaround he drove back up the hill and headed towards Scammonden. It had takenhim less than two minutes to abduct Hussain.

Pauline Crean was undertaking thefinal check of the day on the stable block, outbuildings and horses. The wholeyard, together with the surrounding buildings, were well-lit by powerfulhalogen lights and she felt completely at ease, accompanied by her three chocolateLabradors, as she wandered around outside the isolated farmhouse. “Hello boy,”she whispered, patting the neck of one of the horses; she held out the flatpalm of her hand and the horse quickly made short work of devouring the apple.She patted him again and said, “Goodnight.” Then, as she was heading backtowards the farmhouse she heard the telephone ringing: there was an outsidebell in the yard and an extension fitted in the tack room, so she could alwayshear and answer the phone while outside.

She quickly sprinted over to the tack room.I hopethis is Jonathan, she thought, crossing her fingers. She snatched up thetelephone, “Hello,” she said, slightly out of breath.

“Hi, Pauline, it’s Tracey.”

Tracey Proudfoot was a former work colleague fromback in the 1980s; she had been the secretary at the law firm where Paulinefirst practised, and the two had become good friends.

“Hi, Tracey,” she said, trying to sound upbeat. “It’sbeen a while.”

“Yes, I think the last time we spoke was just afterGerrard’s funeral.”

“Yes it was,” Pauline said, thinking back.

“How are you and the kids?”

“I’m okay, I suppose,” she replied, soundinganything but. “The kids are enjoying university, although they’re both on agap-year travelling around Asia together. Sarah rings me every couple of weeksto see how I’m doing, and Scott, well he misses his father.”

“Have you still got the menagerie?”

“Yes, I’m currently in the yard, checking on them.So how are you doing?”

“I’ve got some news about me and Austin. We’re tyingthe knot next year and we’d love you to come to the wedding.”